Note: I started a week-long writing workshop today that required a writing exercise. And I tried to sort through the transition struggles of my 11-year-old. Here’s what happened.
I turned back for a final look as everything I knew grew smaller with each passing streetlamp. That was six hours ago. I still can’t seem to see what lies ahead.
They say the years pass fast as you get older. Eleven years may seem short to most, but for me it’s a lifetime, a lifetime of stomping on my ground and being the king of my domain. A lifetime of exploring my town and choosing my friends.
But this I did not choose.
I feel helpless.
I trust my mom and dad. I believe they know what’s best. I know they want what’s right for us… for me. But, I feel like a blind man walking into a minefield not knowing what the next step will hold. I’m scared. I’m sad. And I feel so alone.
They tell me there will be new friends and new fun. But why do they think I want new? Why don’t they understand that what I really want is what we’re leaving behind.
Home.
My home.
I am trapped in a story I did not write and forced into a turn I did not take and there is nothing I can do but cry. The helpless kind of cry. You know… with tears that drown out any faint glimmer of hope.
As I look out the window at an unfamiliar skyline, the Friday evening sun is sinking low on the horizon. A sun that will look different tomorrow. A setting sun that marks the end of not just a day, or even a week, but of a lifetime. An 11-year life that will fade slowly and give way to whatever new story tomorrow brings.
I can only hope that they are right. I can only trust that life works out as they say. I silence the chaos in my head. I close my eyes. I gently fall to sleep. And dream about tomorrow.
